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FIREFLIES 



FIREFLIES 

LYRICS AND SONNETS 
ALICIA K. VanBUREN 

Author of 
As Thought is Led 




RICHARD G. BADGER 

Gtye (Sorljam $rtBB 
BOSTON 



Copyright, 191 3, by Alicia K. VanBuren 



All Rights Reserved 



-rr 



The poem entitled When Dreams Come 
True is printed in this volume by permission 
of D. Appleton & Co.; the poem, The Song 
He Made, by permission of the Bobbs Mer- 
rill Co.; the poem, Bubbles, by permission of 
Harper and Brothers. 

The author wishes to thank these pub- 
lishers for their kindness. 






The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S, A. 



GCLA354i?34 

7v» ; . 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Fireflies 9 

Long Days Ago 10 

The Mocking Bird 11 

Youthful Love 12 

When Dreams Come True 13 

Browning 14 

A Woman s Prayer 15 

To an Old Time Poet 16 

Fate 17 

Town and Country 18 

Duty and Love 19 

Purpose 20 

To a Mother 21 

Sleepless 22 

Wordsworth on Westminster Bridge .... 23 

The Song He Made 25 

A Misty Morning 26 

Ships at Sea 2^ 

Doubt 28 

One Night 29 

The Play of Life 30 



PAGE 

Justified 32 

Lilies of the Valley 33 

Changed 34 

Why 35 

The Rose 36 

Climbers 37 

False Comforters 38 

Perhaps 40 

The Abyss 41 

The Spirit Moans 42 

The Bird Song 43 

Bubbles 45 

The Puzzle Picture 46 



FIREFLIES 



FIREFLIES 

Above a meadow near the river shore, 
Upon a summer evening still and warm, 
I saw a multitude of fireflies swarm, 

And each its tiny twinkling lantern bore. 

And as the night grew darker each pale flame, 
Of azure, opal and of topaz hue, 
Began to brighten, and still brighter grew — 

Till suddenly a sweeping windstorm came! 

The great trees bent, the dead twigs stung my 
face, 
The driven leaves made tumult on the 

ground ; 
The little living lamps, in darkness 
drowned, 
Were swept into the black abyss of space. 

Is their fate ours? Is ours a truer light — 
That frail uncertain lamp we call the soul? 
Are we, too, swept to some abysmal goal 

Like fireflies blown across a windy night? 

9 



LONG DAYS AGO 

Long days ago — and now! The same stars 
shine 
Above the moss-hung oaks, wide-branched 

and tall, 
That fringe the river shore. The moon- 
beams fall 
Once more upon the waves. From yonder pine 
Again pours forth the mockingbird's divine 
Impassioned songs. Again I hear them all ! 
Again his mate will answer to his call! 
Again this wealth of loveliness is mine! 

Old sights, old sounds upon the moonlit 
shore, 
You thronged the happy chambers of my 

heart 
Like welcome guests upon some festal 
night, 
Long days ago; but now you bring no more, 
(Although unchanged you seem in any 

part), 
The old-time sweetness and the old delight. 

10 



THE MOCKING BIRD 

The mockingbird is singing overhead, 

And every note seems but a longing cry 
For his dear mate, now far away or dead. 

Ah, no! his soul is glad and it is I 
Who put this grief and passion in his song. 

For through my mind the thought of other 
days, 
Those dear departed days for which I long, 

Has spread the past's deep melancholy 
haze — 
Just as the colors of the dying sun 
Tinge earth and sky when day is nearly done. 



IT 



YOUTHFUL LOVE 

O tell me not I pray that love has sped 
Because it seems no longer now to know 
The inspiration and the rapturous glow 

It knew in youth. The youthful days are 
dead, 

Like tender apple-blossoms white and red 
That for a week-time's transport bud and 

blow, 
And then drop off — a rosy-tinted snow — 

And leave us mourning for the beauty fled. 

The blooms are dead — those first enraptured 

days — 
But, ah, through them are born Love's nobler 

powers, 
Enriched by all the wealth that memories 

bring; 
Even as the tree a richer life displays 
In ripening fruit to which, through fertile 

hours, 
The blossoms' tint and odor cleave and cling. 

12 



WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE 

Last night into this quiet room you came 
And stood beside my couch and called my 

name, 
And then my heart, which for one moment 

thrilled 
With old-time joy, once more, alas, was filled 
With pain; for, as I stretched my hand to 

where 
You stood, I woke and found you were not 

there. 

But some day, dearest, some day when I take 
The last earth-sleep, you'll greet me as I wake 
And press my lips and, holding fast my hand, 
Will safely lead me to your own far land. 



13 



BROWNING 

When Raphael heard the crowd applaud his 
art 
He smiled, be sure, with pleasure; yet I 
trow 
No laudatory phrase could thrill his heart 
Like one short word from Angelo. 

So Verdi, when the plaudits wax most loud, 
Forgets the roaring and the wreaths that 
fall, 

And looks where sits, amid the noisy crowd, 
"Rossini patient in his stall." 

And Browning! — Let the world give praise 
or blame 

Two voices he could hear, and ever heard, 
The voice of Landor trumpeting his fame, 

And hers, "half-angel and half-bird." 



14 



A WOMAN'S PRAYER 

If I, O Lord, a cross must bear, 

Though heavy it may be or light, 

I pray my cross at least seem fair 
And, oh, not ugly to the sight! 



15 



TO AN OLD-TIME POET 

Where is the beauty of yesteryear? 

It is dying or dead, 

So the poet said, 
And lost to the world of Now and Here. 

But the poem itself proves the poet wrong; 

For he cried in his grief 

"All beauty is brief," 
And his cry was a deathless and beautiful 
song. 



16 



FATE 

He and she together strove 

Through years of love and waiting; 
Happier days they hoped would come 

As after night the morning. 

Now the wage of toil is past, 

The old-time needs are ended, 

Fame is his and wealth is his, 

The world's great doors are opened. 

But, alas, he lives his days 

In hopeless helpless longing: 

She is dead and hope is dead 

And love lives on in mourning. 



17 



TOWN AND COUNTRY 

I am weary of town, of the crowded streets, 

Of the houses in tedious rows; 
Of the hard harsh pavement under my feet 

Where a tuft of grass never grows. 
I long for a tramp through a country lane, 

For the draught of an air like wine; 
I long for the meadows, the fields of grain, 

For the trees and the hedge and the vine. 

And when I have found my strength again 
In the peace of the country days, 

I shall heed the call of my fellow men 
And the charm of the city ways. 

For the town attracts with its emulous strife 
When the country grows lonely and brown; 

And we long for the quiet of country life 
Because of the noisy town. 



18 



DUTY AND LOVE 

The day is blest that gives us strength to fight 
The keen desires that tempt us from the right; 
But better day when we shall choose the good 
Because we love and not because we should. 



19 



PURPOSE? 

The London skies are dark and drear. 
Upon the thronging streets below 
Drop countless tiny flakes of snow, 

Which quickly melt and disappear. 

In crowded London day by day, 

Begin what multitudes of lives! 
His fated period each survives, 

Then passes like the snow away. 

Both pass — the snow flake and the man; 
Or so it seems! Yet, may it be 
That even the tiniest flake I see 

Has endless part in some great plan? 



20 



TO A MOTHER 

Ah, you who see, in anguish deep, 
Your loved one nearing death's long sleep 

By this be reconciled: 
She will not weep as you now weep 

Above a dying child. 



21 



SLEEPLESS 

Awake at night I cry: "Oh let me live 
But in the present and forget 
The sorrow of old days." — And yet, 

If memories were mine to keep or give, 

I could not have the joy without the pain. 
For joy and pain are linked so fast 
That not one joy from all the past 

Would be a joy did not some grief remain. 



22 



WORDSWORTH ON WESTMINSTER 
BRIDGE 

One 

Here Wordsworth passed — a hundred years 
ago! 
The bridge's self is new, and since those 

days 
The scene has doubtless changed in count- 
less ways, 
And most things now a different aspect show. 

But still the yellow Thames the same sky 

greets 

As then; and still the sacred Abbey's walls 

Remain unhurt by time; and still St. Paul's 

Huge dome looks down upon the ancient 

streets. 



*3 



Two 
Here Wordsworth paused — a hundred years 
ago— 
To watch the pomp and glory of the dawn. 
Here earth and soul in one commingled glow 
Were touched with fire from far horizons 
drawn. 

Unnumbered morns, as beautiful and bright, 
Have led the long procession of the days; 

Unnumbered eyes'have met the morning light; 
Unnumbered men have gone their un- 
marked ways. 

But Time that changes grants this changeless 
hour, 
Fixed in the fabric of immortal verse; 
As if the poet's hand had plucked a flower, 
And thus had saved it from the primal 
curse. 



24 



THE SONG HE MADE 

He lived his lowly life apart, 

Intent upon the things above, 
And gave his heart to love and art 

And strove through art to tell his love. 

And when he felt the cruel ache 

That robs of strength the brave and strong, 
He braced his soul, for manhood's sake, 

And put his courage in a song — 

Like some storm-breasting bird that soars 
And sings above the clouds and rain, 

And on the under-world outpours 
A song of triumph over pain! 

The song was made for him alone; 

He had no thought of others' need; 
But far and wide the sound was blown, 

And all that needed strength gave heed. 



25 



A MISTY MORNING 

A heavy fog has dimmed the rising sun. 

I see the river, but the hills upon 

The farther shore are veiled. The mist-hued 

sky 
And water seem to meet; but, bye and bye, 
When all the mists are gone I'll see how far 
Apart the sky and river really are — 
How very far apart they really are. 

Within the misty land of dreams last night 
How near, my love, you seemed ; but then the 

light 
Awakened me, and now that it is day 
I know once more that you are far away — 
Ah, me, so very, very, far away! 



26 



SHIPS AT SEA 

With steady rise and fall our steamer's prow 
Invades the thickening mist that wraps us 

round. 
As slowly through the oily waves we plow, 
Our fog-horn blows a constant mournful 

sound, 
And faraway another horn replies. 
Behind the impenetrable veil there hies 
Another ship with other men who bear, 
Perhaps, the same unrest, the same despair 
I feel. The far sounds faint and fade away 
As each ship seeks its chosen far-off shore. 
We meet for one brief space of one small day, 
We hear each other's hail and then we part. 
We meet and part — all life seems nothing 

more. 
Again we are alone, but o'er my heart 
Old memories and hopeless longings creep 
Like the shrouding mist that broods upon the 

deep. 



27 



DOUBT 

If for one hour, dear love, you would draw- 
near 
For only one brief hour — and give to me 
The old-time happiness! Oh, could you 
see 
These tears of mine — this loneliness and 

fear — 
And whisper just a single word to cheer 
My lonely way, you might again be free 
To go to your fair land — where'er it be — 
While I with newborn strength would linger 
here. 



I long to think that you are safe above, 
Within some happier world; but when I 

stand 
With pleading outstretched arms and yet 
you give 
No token of remembrance or of love, 
I doubt that there exists a spirit-land, 
For you, I feel, would answer did you live. 

28 



ONE NIGHT 

It is a lovely night. Through moss-hung 

trees, 
Beside the water's edge, the moonbeams fall 
Aslant upon the river's sparkling waves. 
A murmur fills the fields ; the dusky leaves 
Are stirred by gentle breezes, and the waves 
Are softly rolled against the sandy shore. 
From out the wood I hear a whippoorwill, 
And, close beside me, in the orange tree 
A mockingbird is calling to its mate. 
And I, dear love, am calling unto you ! 



29 



THE PLAY OF LIFE 

Not I alone weep bitter tears 
In pain and longing and unrest, 
Not I alone! 
Through what innumerable years 
The legions of the sore-distressed 
Have grown! 

The play of life 's an old, old play, 
Though new the players one and all; 
And each must wait, 
Perhaps for years, perhaps a day, 
The sharp unfailing prompter's call 
Of fate. 



The author of the play, be sure, 

His time-worn scenes must greatly prize. 
Whatever his powers, 
How could he otherwise endure 
These trembling hands and tear-dimmed 
eyes 
Of ours? 

30 



And yet, however this may be, 
I wish to act my own small part 
With steadfast soul, 
So I may reach, on land or sea, 
With self respect and dauntless heart, 
My goal. 



3i 



JUSTIFIED 

A flame, perhaps, is Life's despair — 
That scorches while it lights the way 
That leads us to a perfect day 

Where pain has ceased to be — or where 
Its elements like some alloy 
But serve to strengthen higher joy. 



32 



LILIES OF THE VALLEY 

Within the shelter of the shadowy glade 
My tender lilies of the valley grow, 
On them the darkness and moist earth 
bestow 
Their bloom and fragrance, for in the damp 

shade 
They thrive, tho in the sun they droop and 

fade. 
So you, perhaps, and I — who all alone 
Within the shadow of great sorrows 
dwell — 
We, too, might lose some loveliness we own 
If naught but rays of gladness round us 
fell. 



33 



CHANGED 

This is the same old world that I 
With you once lived in, dear. 

These are the same friends passing by 
That passed when you were here. 

But how unreal the people seem, 

How futile all they do; 
They and the world are but a dream 

Since death has taken you. 



34 



WHY 

Why have you been called away, 
You so strong and full of life — 
While I, unfit to bear the strife 

Of this sad world, am forced to stay? 

And yet one joy the days reveal, 
One ray to lighten my despair: 
That I instead of you must bear 

The longings that the lonely feel. 



35 



THE ROSE 

The rose that on my sill now blooms so 
bright 

A month ago was drooping more and more; 

The little crimson blossoms that it bore 
Grew daily paler in my window's light. 
In hope that I might end the cruel blight 

I gave it ampler room to grow. Before 

The month had passed its old-time strength 
it wore 
And once again its beauty charmed my sight. 

Our human body that grows weak with age — 
That time when man can take no joy nor 
give— 
I wonder if it be a narrow cage 
Within whose bars the cramped soul cannot 
live! 
I wonder if, with ampler room elsewhere, 
The soul-life, too, will bloom more strong 
and fair! 



36 






CLIMBERS 

We slowly climb the slope of life. We may 
Not see what lies above, and all we know 
Is that the land is broad and clear below, 

And that it grows still wider day by day. 

And as we climb we meet strange shapes — 
some gay 
And beautiful, who welcome gifts bestow; 
And some that frown and all unkindness 
show; 

But step by step we win the upward way. 

Shall we go on forever climbing thus, 
Each day new knowledge gaining and new 
power, 
Or some day reach a land all glorious 

And rest? Or, when we reach the topmost 
height, 
Shall we descend the darkness hour by hour 
From which so slowly we emerged to 
light? 



37 



FALSE COMFORTERS 

So full of hope, so full of joy was I ! 

Then suffering came and I am robbed of 
both. 

I summon all life's shattered forces, loth 
To yield the fight; and still once more I try 
To face my fate with courage ere I die. 

I hear the sound of laughter from the street; 
I, too, once laughed and every thought was 

glad; 
But now, remembering, nothing seems more 
sad 
Than sounds of joy, and nothing seems so 

sweet 
As death's cool rest for weary head and feet. 

At times good friends, by pain as yet untaught, 
Will tell of griefs more hard than mine to 
bear. 
'Tis true; Sorrow I know is everywhere. 
But oh, kind souls, what solace have you 
brought 
To one that feels what you have only thought. 

38 



Like you I once was ignorantly blind ; 
But now, through grief, a world-wide grief 

I share, 
And new-born knowledge brings a new 
despair: 
The heaviest weight that crushes heart and 

mind 
Is the unceasing woe of all mankind. 



39 



PERHAPS 

I know not what the tireless days conspire, 
Nor what is best, nor what is worst; 
But life in truth is doubly cursed 

Without some hope to win the soul's desire. 

So let me welcome life with stubborn will 
And meet fate's blows with unbowed head. 
Perhaps the clear-eyed happy dead 

See how the ill was never really ill. 



40 



THE ABYSS 

From sorrow's topmost peak I seem to see 
Earth's swarming millions moving to and 

fro. 
Through country roads and city streets they 
flow 
Like rushing streams; while I, on bended 

knee, 
Watch the fulfillment of their fate's decree. 
The currents sweep them on, now fast now 

slow, 
Into the dark abyss where all must go. 
The sight appals me but I cannot flee. 

They dance, they sing, they crown themselves 
with flowers, 
With eager toil they seek the world's 
applause; 
And yet, as well as I, they know how fast 
Their loved ones near the limit of their hours, 
How grief with every heart-beat closer 
draws, 
And all is sealed in darkness at the last. 

4i 



THE SPIRIT MOANS 

The spirit moans though lips be dumb, 

And bitter tear drops start. 
Not merely from wet eyes they come, 

But from a breaking heart. 
From earthly friends my tears I hide, 

(They must not see my woe) ; 
And if you, dear, be at my side 

I pray you do not know — 
Unless your earth-freed eyes can see, 

What love would hold as true, 
That every grief that comes to me 

Is but a step to you. 



42 



THE BIRD-SONG 

I went to a physician's room one day. 
A dreary room it was! Against the wall 
Were patients sitting — some were old and 

gray 
And others young and golden-haired, but all 
That gathered there looked anxious, pale and 

thin. 
And when upon a table in the room 
I saw a tiny gilded cage within 
Whose bars there crouched a silent bird, a 

gloom 
More dense than ever filled my heart, for he 
Unhappier seemed than they who waited 

there. 
I knew that soon the others would be free 
To go into the sunlight and the air, 
While he, poor bird, a prisoner must remain. 
But suddenly he hopped into his swing 
And then began a song. No trace of pain 
Or sadness filled his notes; he seemed to sing 



43 



Of shady lanes, of ferns beside the brook, 
Of daisy fields, of laughing girls and boys. 
Sad faces lulled by magic lost the look 
Of sadness and dim eyes grew bright with joys 
Of by-gone happier days to come devoid 
Of pain and care. It seemed as if the bird 
Had also changed — as if he, too, enjoyed 
His hampered life the more, because he gave 
The best he had, his little song. So I 
Perhaps, myself forgetting, may be brave 
And sing a song to soothe tired hearts that 
sigh. 



44 



BUBBLES 

My little Mary, who could scarcely stand 
And ne'er had walked, I took with me one 

day 
To where the other children were at play. 
We found them blowing bubbles. Her small 

hand 
Held fast to mine as though she feared to fall ; 
But when one bubble brightly-hued took 

flight 
She clasped her tiny fingers with delight 
And rushing forward caught the radiant ball. 
Alas, the bubble burst! She gave a moan 
Of disappointment. Then my baby cried! 
Dear child, you too have lost what you have 
tried 
To win, but you too now have walked alone! 



45 



THE PUZZLE-PICTURE 

With mind perplexed and heavy-weighted 

heart 
I thought of things we cannot understand: 
The lingering death that saps a strong man's 

strength ; 
The death of children in the pang of birth; 
The joy that lures but does not last; the pain 
That outlives joy; the dream that seems so 

real; 
The hard reality that seems a dream ; 
The great thing sought that turns so soon to 

small ; 
The little thing despised that proves so great. 

I came where little Mary sat with head 
Bent low and soft curls falling o'er her cheek. 
Disordered fragments of a picture lay 
Before her on a stand. In color, size 
And shape there were no two alike, but each 
Was in itself a picture true to fact 
In every part, and yet in every part 

4 6 



Half meaningless or hinting something false. 
These puzzling fragments little Mary sought 
To group in one large picture all complete. 
I watched her dimpled fingers as they moved 
Among the many pieces — looks of hope 
And disappointment flitting o'er her face. 

Dear child, I thought, a harder problem still 
The sure relentless years for you shall set: 
To frame your picture of the mighty world! 
And you shall strive to make love fit with 

hate, 
And life with death, and happiness with pain ; 
And you shall fail as wisest men have failed ; 
For always part shall seem to clash with part 
Like inharmonious tones that will not blend. 

Thus passed a silent hour. Then suddenly 
I heard a happy cry, "O, look!" and lo, — 
Each piece in place, upon the table spread — 
A single well wrought picture lay revealed! 
And every part in its allotted sphere 
Disclosed its secret meaning and design. 

47 



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